


ain't it warming you, the world going up in flames?

by moxiemorton



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hozier, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Apocalypse, Various AUs, not really song fics...just vibes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23933617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moxiemorton/pseuds/moxiemorton
Summary: A collection of bemily minifics based on Hozier songsMix of various AUs, lowkey post-apocalypse vibes at times, mixed POV
Relationships: Emily Junk/Beca Mitchell
Comments: 33
Kudos: 42





	1. Wasteland, Baby!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wherehopelies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherehopelies/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on Angie's awful awful zombie au from 2018 Bemily Week and I MADE IT BETTER OK anyway enjoy au zombie apocalypse au
> 
> [Angie's fic (warning: blood/death/general angst)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14004348)   
>  her bullet fic sequel that only marginally patched things up   
>  [Sylvie's (sylviewashere) Hozier edit that coincidentally fits into this fic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_K0SN7lOonA)

Emily hears the warbling of a tuning radio as she approaches the wall. A familiar barrage of indistinguishable static, the sound would’ve made her heart ache with nostalgia even if they weren’t in the midst of an apocalypse. She finds its owner perched on the wall, fidgeting with the dials and antenna.

Not wanting to scare her, Emily clears her throat softly before speaking. “Hi.”

Beca still jumps, whirling so fast she almost slips off the wall and down the cliff below. It’s been weeks since they’d arrived at the military camp, but their scavenging days had left them anxious and paranoid. And sleepless, Emily notes, wincing at the dark circles under Beca’s wide eyes.

She relaxes when she sees Emily, though, and loosens her grip on the screwdriver. “Hi.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I didn’t hear you.”

Emily joins her on the stone wall, swinging her legs over to dangle over the edge. This part of the camp border isn’t as heavily guarded, the cliff too steep for the Infected to climb. It’s a quiet spot they’d found and revealed to no one else, a secret getaway for when things got too loud or hectic back in tent city.

Emily watches Beca tinker with the radio for a bit before she speaks. “You weren’t at dinner. I got worried.”

Beca scrunches her eyebrows and looks up at the darkening sky. “Sorry, I lost track of time.” Her tone is sincerely apologetic but lacking in the franticness that used to follow a separation, no matter how brief, back in the world of the Infected. Gone are the days when someone’s prolonged absence equated to their surefire death.

“A guy was trading a bunch of stuff out of his tent, and I saw this thing,” she explains, poking around here and there with the screwdriver. “Traded my jacket for it.”

“Beca,” Emily chides.

“What? It’s summer now, I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, but what about when winter comes? Do you know how cold it gets up here?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Emily hums, still not happy but pacified by the pronoun Beca uses. “Seems like a useless trade for him. He couldn’t possibly fit into one of your jackets.”

Beca’s quiet for a long while, popping open the back cover and toying with the wiring before she responds. “It was for his daughter,” she says quietly. She shifts closer to Emily so their arms brush against each other. “Sorry I missed dinner. I wanted to get this working again before I showed you.”

She screws the cover back on and fidgets with the dials again. The sound becomes marginally clearer, the twisting of the dials actually changing the stations this time.

“The broadcast is on —”

“I’m not looking for that,” Beca says, squinting at the numbers through the dusty screen. “Parker was telling me about this group of guys living out of Willis Tower, broadcasting shit like book readings and live covers and whatever music they could get their hands on.”

Her fingers freeze as she picks up on something through the static. Emily strains her ears to no avail, but Beca’s face splits into a wide smile, the first real one Emily’s seen in a while. “Here,” she whispers excitedly, raising the volume.

It’s a little bit clearer now, the lilt of a melody unmistakeable through the white noise. The easy strumming of a guitar. Tinny sounds of chimes, maybe a synth. There’s too much static to really make out the words, but it’s a slow and steady cadence, soothing and dreamy.

Emily realizes with a jolt that this is the first time they’d listened to recorded music since they all left the Bella house a million years ago. Plenty of people around the camp sang songs and played tunes on salvaged instruments, but with no way to charge phones or mp3 players, studio-recorded music was basically obsolete.

“Wow,” Emily breathes, her statement reflected on Beca’s elated expression. “You saved it.”

She doesn’t know why she chose that word when it’s just a radio and radios are _fixed_ , not saved. But she can’t unsay it, can’t do anything about the way Beca’s smile fades, can’t stop either of them from reliving the agonizing moments when they lost their friends. Emily holds her breath as the song continues to play softly between them, persistently calm despite the landmine she’d triggered.

She risks a glance at Beca’s face. Her eyes are clear. Sad, but clear.

“Yeah,” she finally says, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “I guess I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title song: NFWMB - Hozier
> 
> I have a pretty hefty list of songs and ideas for each of them, but feel free to send over any of your thoughts! Or if you just wanna chat :)
> 
> <https://becaeffingmitchell.tumblr.com/>


	2. Take Me to Church

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if I knew more about religion I would've made this more metaphorical or alluded to some Bible quote/story but I don't so lmao w/e
> 
> lowkey tagger!Beca? literally never considered it but hell yEaH that'd be cool
> 
> a fitting edit

She’d always hated Sundays. 

The Sabbath Day, the Lord’s Day, the Holy Day, the Whatever Day. Her family had treated religion as a facet of their identity rather than a comforting belief system, their blind devotion to their God formed from the twisted interpretations of text as opposed to the sense of spirituality He was supposed to represent. She’d attended services every Sunday for as long as she could remember, her mother stuffing her and her siblings into stiff formalwear and herding them into the car. Strangely enough, she liked dressing up in nice church clothes. It was everything that came with it that filled her with dread. 

It’s with these mixed feelings of resentment and nostalgia that Emily walks down the aisle of the abandoned church on a bleak Sunday morning, the crumbling walls providing no defense against the chilly fog settling onto the field outside. It’s a small building, fit for maybe a hundred occupants, give or take. Most of the pews are still in their neat little rows, the sections closer to the missing chunks of the wall more weather-worn. 

She hasn’t stepped inside a church since middle school, back when she’d finally found the resolve to put her foot down and refuse to attend the hate-fueled services that made her feel small and hated. She was twelve, almost thirteen. Almost thirteen years for her to understand what they were preaching. To understand who they were condemning. To understand that she was considered a sinner. To understand she was going to hell. 

She wishes she’d understood sooner. 

Emily stares into the middle distance and tries to imagine this hollow building a few decades into the past. Churchgoers would be filing in around this time, making the trek up the same winding path Emily had taken from the small town nearby. There’d probably be children, laughing, as she once had, upon seeing their friends. 

Gazing up at the worn-out cross above the altar, she idly wonders if there’s a bell. If it still works. 

A soft curse brings her out of her reverie, and Emily finds herself rolling her eyes and smiling despite the moment. “Are you almost done?” she calls over her shoulder, eyes still lingering on the cross. She receives an annoyed grumble in response. 

“I swear to god, if you ask me that one more time…”

Emily laughs, the sound strangely muffled despite the gaping holes in the walls. “You can’t swear to god in here. It’s a holy place.”

Beca’s mocking scoff sums up all of Emily’s muddled feelings. “A holy place? Dude, this place is  _ wrecked _ . Can’t be that holy if a few raindrops and some dumb vandals can tear it up.”

“You’re vandalizing too,” Emily points out. 

“Yeah, but at least my vandalism is tasteful.” As if to emphasize her point, she shakes a spray can, the pea inside rattling rhythmically. Emily glances over out of the corner of her eye to watch Beca’s tiny form stretch up onto the tips of her toes to reach a high spot on the wall. She only manages to watch one line being drawn before Beca catches her.

“Hey! No looking!”

“I’m not!”

“Yes, you are! I’m not done!”

“I’m not  _ looking _ , Beca.” She shakes her head. “You’re making such a big deal out of this.”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I’ve seen your tag before.”

“It’s not that.”

Emily had figured it wasn’t, since it’s taking a much longer time. She has only herself to blame; she’d been the one to stumble upon this desolate structure, to lead Beca here, to show her the empty stretch of wall that’d be perfect for her to transform with her countless cans of spray paint. Maybe she should’ve brought a book. Some snacks. Anything to distract her from the fact that she’s inside a church.

Abiding by Beca’s wishes, she relents and quits trying to sneak a look at what she’s painting. 

Her eyes skitter back towards the altar and she looks back up at the cross, contemplative. “I don’t think it’s about the holiness of a place that keeps it intact. Like, it’s not a question of which force is stronger, God or nature…or vandals,” she adds as an afterthought. 

Beca hums to indicate she’s listening. 

“I mean, religion is only as strong as the power of belief, right? So if people stop believing, or if the people who do believe are gone, this place just becomes a building. Just any old building, not a house of worship, probably not worth anything in God’s eyes.” She moves her gaze higher, to the empty hole that might’ve once had a stained-glass window. “But that doesn’t mean this place has to go to ruin. It didn’t have to be used as a church. It didn’t have to be used at all, really. It just needed someone who cared about it. Someone who saw that it really was just any old building, that there could be more uses for it, that there’s something worth preserving.” 

Emily stares up at the gray sky through the former window, suddenly noticing the lack of spraying and rattling. She looks over at Beca, who’s watching her with a small smile. “Finished,” she says quietly. 

“Oh,” Emily mutters, looking past her at the art on the wall. “Wow.”

It spreads across the whole section of the wall from floor to ceiling, paint occasionally bleeding onto the adjacent surfaces, simultaneously careless and intensional. The subtle and muted hues of the rainbow provides a colorful backdrop, bringing life and color to the drab, rotting wood underneath. Two floating figures, distinctly feminine but artfully formless, take the stage as the subjects, their positions and joined hands reminiscent of Michaelangelo’s Creation of Adam. 

“It’s not,” Beca cuts into her thoughts. She’s holding her phone up sideways to take a photo. “What you’re thinking it is. I thought of it too as soon as I finished, but it's a coincidence. Or some intense divine irony.”

“It’s beautiful.” Emily hears the reverence in her own voice. She slips her hand into Beca’s, still sweaty from the rubber gloves she’d been wearing. 

After spending the last hour pacing around a half-destroyed church while averting her eyes from this piece, from the colors, from Beca, the sheer vibrancy of the artwork makes Emily’s head spin. This, she realizes, is what she’d been talking about. Something outside of holiness that gives a building its spirituality. Something worth preserving. 

The sermons she’d been subjected to as a child, the tired old rituals of mass, the whole performative nature of it all…and the consequent loneliness she’d felt as a clear outsider to its beliefs. None of that really mattered in the long run. And why should it matter, when she’s holding hands with someone who truly understands her? Who truly loves her?

Beca’s smile is sly but proud. “Think it was worth the wait?”

Emily turns to her, happiness overflowing in her chest. “Yeah. Definitely worth it,” she agrees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title song: NFWMB - Hozier
> 
> yes the painting/mural is based off of the one from The Half of It bc I am currently THoI trash and consequently had a dream about it and this whole chapter!!!!!!!!
> 
> hmu @ https://becaeffingmitchell.tumblr.com


	3. Would That I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is one of my faves I literally used to have it on its own playlist on my iPod because the bpm is exactly my walking pace and I'd just listen to it on repeat omw to work
> 
> anyway this one doesn't have as much of an apocalypse vibe but whatevs
> 
> most fitting edit

The fire roars to life and the festival-goers erupt in cheers. 

It’d taken much longer than expected for the crew to get the blaze going; the sky is an inky black by the time the tendrils of flames start licking upwards, reaching for the glittering stars. The chilly air brightens, the warmth of the fire enveloping everyone standing within its radius. Behind them the Harvest Festival comes to a close, stands and tents collapsing as its owners mosey on over to join the gathering.

It’s the season of change. Of death, of rebirth, of shedding the old to make room for the new. And Beca shimmies on up to the bonfire, planning to honor it by physically burning away those old memories, however much of a cliche that might be. She’s ready for the change. For the death and rebirth. 

She approaches slowly, the heat and brightness as magnificent as it is terrifying. Only a few people are standing this close to the flames, mostly just daring teens tossing sticks and bits of bark onto the burning pile. From her bag, Beca pulls out her own fuel for the fire, a worn-out cardboard box stuffed with letters, memos, post-its, and even a thin, paperback book. Expendable mementos of lovers past. And without preamble, she tosses the box in, watching it disappear behind the blinding blaze. The fire swells a bit as if accepting her offering.

Tilting her head back, she breathes in the smoky autumn air and feels alive for the first time in years. 

A short “whoo!” burts from behind her, quickly followed by more cheers and applause, and she’s smiling even before she turns to face her friends. One of them even wolf whistles, a piercing sound over the din of the crowd and the crackling of the fire.

They’re being ridiculous, but their rancorous support warms her heart as she makes her way back to the group. 

The cooler is propped open, beers are distributed, and the bottle opener makes its rounds. Someone calls for a toast and Beca joins in heartily, raising her bottle and touching it to the others’. The familiar clink of glass, the hoppy smell of beer, and the general bubbling laughter and conversation among her friends has her feeling calmer than she’s been for a while. She feels full. Full of joy, comfort, tranquility, love. Of the promise of a brand new beginning. 

Her eyes catch Emily’s from across the group, and they exchange a quiet smile. 

Maybe she doesn’t need a brand new beginning. 

As they settle down on the grass, Beca sneaks another glance at Emily, at the way her smile crinkles her nose and the way she laughs with her entire body. The flickering glow from the fire illuminates her features with a soft amber hue, embodying her ever-present warmth and kindness. Beca looks away before she’s caught staring.

Her gaze fixes onto the fire and she leans back against a log, pleasantly hypnotized by its light. Somewhere in that pyre is her box of letters — no, a box of letters, not hers — probably turned to ash by now, like the piece that floats down and settles by her foot. Whatever it had been was burned away, now just a formless clump as delicate as snow that’ll crumble away if she so much as grazed it; this little morsel could’ve been what Beca held in her hands only minutes ago. 

It’s not regret, per se — it’s more of a nameless ache that grows in her chest. She doesn’t really know what it is or how it can so swiftly come and go even during joyful times like these, leaving her tired and heavy. It’s done. They’re gone. She’s free. She’s supposed to be free.

The festival band returns from their break and music blooms to life. 

Her friends spring to their feet excitedly, rushing to join the crowd beginning to form by the stage. Beca remains seated with a few others who share her aversion to dancing while sober, still transfixed by the fire and wallowing in her muddled and conflicting emotions. 

Emily hops into her field of view.

“Come on,” she invites, pinpricks of fire reflected in her eyes. She’s tugging at Beca’s arm playfully, but the weight in her chest hasn’t quite yet lightened enough for her to be swayed that easily. 

“Later,” she promises, urging her to go on and settling back against the trusty log as Emily gives up with a pout to join the others. There’s no reason for her to be such a downer at a festival like this, but singing and dancing on the literal ashes of her memories — however bittersweet they are now — doesn’t sit right. 

Instead, Beca zones out, absentmindedly chuckling along at a story someone’s telling. Sometimes it’s better not to think about anything, to just exist in the moment and turn off the part of the brain that processes things. The only feeling she wants to focus on is the genuine sense of camaraderie, the festive celebration of fall, and the slight buzz she’s already getting from drinking her beer too fast. 

It’s a while before she realizes she’d been staring at Emily. She hadn’t really meant to, just letting her eyes wander and fixate on whatever they felt like. But then again she should’ve known better; the only thing that’s been more entrancing than the fire tonight is Emily. Beca watches her, mind completely blank except for the image of Emily dancing, a silhouette of pure merriment. More wood is tossed into the fire behind her, strengthening the blaze for an instant to bathe her in a brilliant orange light. Her smile is clear even from this distance. 

A fondness grows inside her, slowly at first before rapidly doubling, tripling in size like a wildfire. She’s always craved that kind of freedom, that casual abandonment of self-consciousness; Emily always makes it look effortless, unabashed elation emanating from her whether she’s sitting six feet away in a circle of their friends or dancing fifty yards away in front of a raging fire. 

And suddenly she’s struck with the thought that maybe whatever she had in the past really wasn’t worth mourning. How no one’s really made her feel like this. How Emily’s laugh warms her all the way down to her toes. How she wants to protect that unrestrained happiness with her dying breath. How she wants to kiss that perfect smile. 

Right then and there, Beca reconsiders what it means to love someone. 

Emily looks over just then, eyes brightening when she catches Beca’s. “Come on!” she calls again, beckoning. Beca blinks out of her daze, vision oddly blurred and discolored like she’d been staring at the sun. The heaviness in her chest is gone, in its place a flutter of anticipation and a bit of hope. 

She gets to her feet and makes her way to the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title song: NFWMB - Hozier
> 
> this chapter came for my neck and my thesaurus like how many different ways can I describe fire and happiness??
> 
> talk bemily with me! or talk hozier with me!!!!
> 
> https://becaeffingmitchell.tumblr.com


	4. Work Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when I said these will be SHORT and yet
> 
> this is entirely based on the second verse, arguably one of my favorite Hozier verses ever
> 
> a fitting edit

Beca wakes to the smell of orchids.

She only recognizes the scent from her childhood home, the single plant her mother had nurtured the only real sign of life in that entire household. Sure enough, when her eyes drift open, the first thing she sees is a pure white orchid on the windowsill.

The familiar smell and sight is quickly replaced by a blinding headache, slicing across her temples and sending shockwaves all around to the base of her neck. She’s disgustingly achy and fatigued, a fever simultaneously roasting her alive with its heat and chilling her to the bone with her sweat. Her chest feels tight and sore, her throat a dry well filled with sand. It truly feels like her body is dying, and she’s eager to help it along if it means ending this absolute misery.

She shifts under her covers and freezes at the unfamiliar weight of them. These aren’t her covers. This isn’t her bed. Slowly, so as to not agitate the migraine thrumming through her head, Beca reopens her eyes to look first at the orchid, then at her surroundings.

She has no idea where the fuck she is.

It’s a tiny, bare room with colorless walls and plain wood flooring. The shadeless window displays the fading light of dusk. The only other furniture aside from the bed is a miniature nightstand and an empty crib. The flower looks incredibly out of place now in the context of this stripped-down room.

Beca vaguely wonders if she’d ended up in a psych ward and how that could’ve happened. She struggles to remember yesterday. The day before. The day before that. It’s all fragmented and foggy, like a nightmare she can’t quite piece together or figure out why it had scared her so.

She’s just about to grit her teeth and roll out of bed to see if she’s actually in a psych ward when footsteps approach the other side of the door. It creaks open slowly, revealing a young woman about Beca’s age.

“Oh. Hi,” she says softly. “You’re awake. Um. Don’t freak out. I swear I didn’t kidnap you.”

They’re not the most reassuring words to hear from a stranger in an unfamiliar room, but with the pain in her head and the warmth of the bed, Beca couldn’t care less if she actually was being kidnapped and held for ransom. As long as she can keep lying on these soft, soft sheets, her captors can demand as much money as they want for her safe return.

“Where am I?” she manages to rasp out. The girl rushes to her side, handing her a glass of water from the nightstand. Her voice sounds awful and she doesn’t even want to say a thank you out of embarrassment.

“My guest room. I live above the bar.” She holds out a hand to Beca. “I’m Emily.”

“Beca.” She weakly returns the handshake. Emily’s hand is warm and soft. Her own hand feels clammy and gross, and she pulls away quickly. Beca regards Emily through hazy vision, hoping to god that she’s not hallucinating any of this. She has a sweet face, framed by baby hairs that’d fallen free from her messy bun. Her eyes are kind but filled with wary concern.

Beca’s throat still feels raw despite the water. “How’d I get here?”

Emily’s polite smile falters. “Oh, uh.” She chews her bottom lip for a second, mulling over her words. “You were at the bar downstairs last night. Do you remember that at all?”

Beca blinks. “No,” she says honestly.

“Oh. Yeah, okay, I figured. I was there with a few friends and I think you came in sometime before midnight? And…” She averts her gaze. “Well, you were kind of the ‘rowdy drunk girl.’ I mean, for someone so small and so wasted, you really gave the owner and the bouncers a run for their money.”

She doesn’t have the energy to groan. Just closes her eyes and whispers, “God.”

Emily grimaces. “Yeah, um. I didn’t really see how it started. We heard yelling but that’s pretty normal for a Friday night. But then it got pretty intense and. Y-you threw a chair. And then smashed a bottle on the counter.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.” She nods to Beca’s left hand, where she’s surprised to find it tightly bandaged. “You cut your hand holding onto a piece of the glass. I guess you were trying to use it like a weapon? Like in the movies.” There’s a hint of a smile on her lips, but it quickly irons out. “Not that…n-not that it matters,” Emily mumbles, color brushing her cheeks. “And then you passed out. Like just. Flat-out collapsed on the floor.”

Beca doesn’t even grace that image with a response. She sinks into the bed and restrains herself from childishly pulling the covers over her head out of shame.

“Listen, I know it’s weird that I brought you here.” Emily’s tone gains a frantic edge. “I just — they were carrying you outside and talking about calling the police. And I felt like…like that’s not what you needed in that state.”

“So you brought me to your place?” Beca asks incredulously. “A complete stranger drunk out of her mind? Picking fights and bleeding all over the place?”

“Well, you were pretty unconscious, so.”

“Still could’ve been dangerous.”

Emily nods. “My friends didn’t want me to. One of them, uh. She searched you for weapons,” she confesses, and Beca hacks out a laugh. “And for keys, in case you had a car nearby.”

“I don’t.”

“Yeah, I know that now.”

“After you had your friend search me?”

“Wh-no! She did it on her own! She’s protective.”

“Whatever, creep.” Beca manages a tired grin to show that she’s joking. Emily giggles, the tension in her shoulders relaxing a little.

She has the smile and laugh of an angel, but even in her half-delirious state Beca knows angels don’t stammer or blush this much. Not a hallucination, then. Which means this room is real. This apartment is real. She’s moping and shivering and sweating in a real person’s bed.

Though it’s the last thing she wants to do, she makes a pathetic attempt to sit up. The world tilts dangerously. “I should. Uh,” Beca pauses, closing her eyes tightly to focus on grounding her swimming head. “Get going.”

“I think you should stay,” Emily says worriedly. Beca’s spent shell of a body wholeheartedly agrees, but her pride says otherwise. “Look, at least eat something before you go. I’ll heat up some soup, okay?”

Beca’s stomach grumbles at the mention of food.

“Okay,” she relents quietly.

Emily flashes her a smile and Beca feels a different kind of dizziness. The door closes quietly behind her, and the sheer emptiness of the room returns in full force. Beca idly wonders why someone like Emily, who seems to have a good heart and a relentless positive attitude, would leave a room set aside for guests so bare and undecorated.

With the headache still cutting through her head and nothing to distract herself with, Beca closes her eyes, lulled into a doze by the orchid’s nostalgic scent.

When she comes to, it’s to the soothing sensation of a damp towel being dabbed against her forehead. The room is now dark, a dim lamp placed on the floor the only source of light. Her headache is less severe but she still feels feverish and nauseous. And tired. Bone-tired.

“You don’t have to do that,” she croaks out, cracking one eye open.

Emily jerks back with surprise. “Oh, god. Hi.”

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be.”

Beca touches her unbandaged hand to the cold washcloth. “You don’t have to do that,” she repeats.

Emily shrugs. “Well, you fell back asleep. And you were sweating so much.”

Guilt weighs heavily in her empty stomach. Suppressing a groan, Beca heaves herself into a sitting position despite Emily’s protests, feeling much lighter than before and not knowing if that’s a good thing or not. “I should get going,” she says, shuffling her legs over the edge of the bed. “Overstaying isn’t really my thing.”

“You’re not overstaying,” Emily assures, “all you do is sleep. You’re the most low-maintenance guest I’ve had in a while.”

“I just. I don’t want to intrude on your family or anything. And I definitely don’t want to be a cautionary tale to your kids.”

Emily’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I don’t have kids. It’s just me here.”

“Oh.” Beca glances at the crib. Emily follows her line of sight, her expression darkerning. “Sorry. Uh, right, I shouldn’t have…” She swallows, suddenly aware that she’d stumbled clumsily onto a sensitive subject. “…assumed.”

There’s a whole untold story in Emily’s eyes that Beca’s not sure she wants to hear. A long, awkward silence stretches between them. Beca desperately wants to bolt from the room, but her foot is frozen on the landmine she’d triggered. Through her sickly state and fevered mind, she can’t think of a single thing to say.

Emily lets out a near-inaudible sigh. “At least eat before you go?” she asks quietly, voice barely above a whisper. She slides a small tray from the nightstand and places it on Beca’s lap. “It might not be hot anymore, I can heat it up again.”

“N-no, it’s okay.” It’s a hearty bowl of chicken noodle soup — homemade, by the looks of it — with two slices of toast on the side. Beca takes a sip and swears she’s never consumed anything this heavenly in her life. She takes it as a good sign when her gross slurping and scarfing brings a tight but relieved smile on Emily’s face.

“There’s more on the stove,” she says.

Beca nods, closing her eyes in bliss as she slows to chew the bread instead of swallowing it whole. The last few days are a drunken blur; she can’t recall the last time she’d eaten an actual meal. As she inhales the rest of the tray, she can sense the near-palpable curiosity from Emily and her desire to ask about last night. About her. About what happened. About what she was doing so incredibly drunk and alone in that bar. Beca’s not even sure if she has an answer for some of those.

But when Emily speaks, it’s not to voice any of the thousand questions that must be bursting inside of her. She’s looking out the window when she whispers, “It’s dark,” almost absent-mindedly. “Maybe you should just stay another night.”

Beca’s about to make some half-hearted joke about actual kidnapping when Emily reaches towards her without warning, pressing the back of her hand against Beca’s forehead. “You’re still burning up,” she mutters, mostly to herself, ironically unaware that Beca freezes at the contact. “And it’s getting late. Do you really want to go?”

Leaving is the last thing she wants to do. And it’s not just because Emily’s right, that she’s still feverish and exhausted. It’s not just the comfortable bed and the delicious soup and Emily’s gentle smile or her sad eyes. Nor is it the way she feels drawn to the dismal room with its bare walls and its bare window and its empty crib and the profound sorrow they all seem to hold.

She finds it almost strange, the feeling that blooms in her chest when she looks at Emily, someone she’d only just met, someone who’d peeled her unconscious body off of a bar floor, someone who took in her mess without question. It’s strange because Beca recognizes it as the feeling she rarely feels, maybe never really felt at all before: love.

“I don’t think you’d want me to stay,” Beca admits quietly, “if you knew what kind of person I was. If you know what I’ve done, who I’ve hurt.”

“I’m not one to judge,” she promises, and Beca believes her.

“I…” she starts, but no other words follow. _I don’t deserve this hospitality_ , is what she wants to say, _I don’t deserve your kindness_.

_I don’t deserve you._

Emily stands slowly and takes the tray from Beca’s lap. “You need to eat more. Get your strength back up. I can get fresh sheets, too. If you decide to stay.” And suddenly she’s moving away to leave the room and Beca panics.

“I’m —” she calls out before she loses her nerve, before another drop of compassion is wasted on her. “I’m not…” she takes a small breath. “I’m not a good person.”

Emily fixes her in a steady, unwavering gaze, unexpectedly comforting despite its intensity. “I’m not one to judge,” she repeats quietly. The words sound different this time, her eyes and smile both infinitely sad as she touches a hand to the crib. “Everyone deals with their pain differently.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title song: NFWMB - Hozier
> 
> no I don't have any solid backstory for either of them but feel free to speculate  
> https://becaeffingmitchell.tumblr.com


	5. Dinner & Diatribes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hozier: I fuckin hate this club and your friends are awful and the only thing getting me through this shitshow is you telling me how you're gonna top me later tonight
> 
> emily: I like this party! This is fun :) You look really pretty :) But aw you don't look like you're having fun :( oh you wanna...what? oh? :0 well ok then

There’s a different kind of energy surrounding Beca tonight. 

Emily can’t quite put her finger on what it is or what caused it, but Beca’s moods have always had a kind of riptide pull, a deceptively subtle undertow that tugs Emily out from the safety of the shallows out into the sea, a gentle temptation into unpredictable waters. 

The way she’s acting tonight isn’t at all subtle or gentle, and Emily’s pulled along more forcefully than she’s accustomed to. 

It’d started way before the party, even before they started pre-gaming. 

In the days leading up to it, Beca had been vocally against attending this party, calling it a waste of time and money for such a bland group of people. So when she emerged from their bedroom wearing a black, backless, knockout dress and four-inch heels, Emily just about fell out of her damn chair. 

“Wh-…wow. Wh-uh. Why’re you…um,” she stammered. “I thought you didn’t care about this party,” Emily finally managed to choke out. 

And it was the knowing smirk that started it all. Beca’s a pro at smirking, the little tilt in her smile coming as naturally and unconsciously as breathing. That, paired with the outfit, had Emily’s neck feeling all warm.

Beca shrugged casually. “I dunno, thought I’d make it fun and go all-out.” Contrary to the light tone, the mischievous glint in her eyes clearly said that she knew exactly what she was doing to Emily. “How do I look?” she asked, turning in a slow, tantalizing circle. 

“Um. Drop-dead gorgeous,” Emily said honestly, suddenly nervous. Not a bad kind of nervous, just the bubbly anticipation for something…unconventional that might happen later that night. Sex didn’t exactly play a huge role in their relationship, and it was rare for either of them to initiate this kind of mood. Much less Beca than Emily, in any case. 

It’s a pleasant sort of surprise, one that has Emily’s fingertips tingling with the prospect of how the night might end.

But if she’s being honest, Emily had expected Beca’s playfulness to fade by the time they arrived at the supposedly boring party. She couldn’t have been more wrong; if anything, the party increases it tenfold. 

The venue’s a classy sort of restaurant converted into a ballroom, regular tables pushed against the walls to make way for a smattering of tall cocktail tables and room to mingle with other partygoers. 

Beca snaps into business mode as several acquaintances approach to greet her, the fake smile plastered on her face nothing like the sly one she’d been shooting Emily throughout the entire ride here.

A bit of a reprieve, really, to have this version of Beca — flirty, suggestive, and slightly lascivious — momentarily distracted. As easy as it is to be pulled into her rhythm, Emily isn’t sure if she can handle being all hot and bothered in a fancy, public place like this. 

Speaking of fancy, Beca had really downplayed this party. It’s a bit boring, maybe, but Emily likes any kind party with a dress code, however bland everything else might be. At the very least, everyone’s dressed to the nines and the alcohol’s a bit more upscale than draft beer and cheap wine. The food is served buffet style, allowing Emily to load up her plate with the more expensive dishes she wouldn’t dare waste her own money on.

As a more prominent guest at this party than Emily, Beca isn’t having as good of a time. After she politely detaches herself from the fifth person to stop her tonight, Beca accepts and drains the glass of bourbon Emily hands her. “God, hate that dude. Never knows when to shut up.”

“Just try not to get cornered by him again,” Emily suggests unhelpfully.

“Hmph,” Beca sniffs. She then turns to Emily, the glint in her eyes rekindled, that trademark smirk widening into a wolfish grin. “Come here,” she beckons, leaning in close as if to tell her a secret. Despite the warning bells, Emily humors her and tilts an ear towards Beca.

What she whispers to Emily leaves her weak in the knees. 

Dirty talk is not Beca Mitchell’s specialty, or so Emily had thought. Their intimacy was always a bit more goofy when it wasn’t genuine, lighthearted and warm with mild banter thrown in.  _ This _ , though, is a new and dark and thrilling and unexplored side of their relationship. That bubbly anticipation in her stomach grows, morphing into a kind of need that makes her toes curl in her dressy flats. 

And because apparently the uncharacteristically lewd words aren’t enough to get her point across, Beca traces her lips around the shell of Emily’s ear and nips lightly at her earlobe, sending a jolt of electricity straight down her spine. 

“Beca,” Emily hisses as she pulls away, hearing and hating the squeak in her own voice. “We’re in  _ public _ .”

With an easy, innocent smile, Beca says, “I know,” and lets herself be pulled into another conversation with a party guest, leaving Emily hanging in more ways than one. 

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t end there. As if to project her frustrations at this party right onto Emily, Beca continues her relentless tirade of shameless flirting and salacious comments, her touch, her words, and her thoughts subtle enough to evade everyone else’s notice. 

By the time dessert is served, Emily’s entire body is on fire. She’s not the type to ever think these kinds of thoughts where instant gratification isn’t an option, and it’s kind of unfair for Beca to get her this flustered when their apartment and bed are so far away. It’s even more unfair because for her part, Beca looks unbothered by the stuff she’s whispering, her facade so complete that not even Emily can see past it.

No, Emily doesn’t know what caused Beca to channel this sexy persona, but she sure knows what she’s going to do to get her back for it.

“I hate you,” she mutters as the party finally ends and they reach the coat check counter. “You’re literally the worst.”

Beca wears a smug look, seemingly satisfied with her rascality. “You liked it.”

“Did not.”

“Really? Then how about when we get home, you…” Beca helps Emily into her coat and trails her fingers down Emily’s neck under the ruse of straightening the collar, “…show me just how much you hate me?” 

And later, after an agonizingly tense cab ride and several apartment stairwell make-out sessions later, Emily does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title song: NFWMB - Hozier
> 
> me, an ace, trying to remember what lust feels like, putting Beca in a backless dress to channel Emily's thirst, kind of failing but surpassing the point where I stop caring, 
> 
> ....anyway hmu @ https://becaeffingmitchell.tumblr.com and talk Hozier Comp with me


	6. Like Real People Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been avoiding making them kiss bc I lowkey hate writing kiss scenes bc I feel like I don't do them justice but this song is like. all about kissing so. unavoidable.
> 
> this is for Angie, who's constantly on my back about having them kiss,

She forgets to grab her jacket on the way out, but the door slams shut behind her with a kind of finality that she doesn’t dare reconsider. Running her hands along her bare arms, she takes off at a brisk pace down the deserted road. 

She’s halfway across the cricket-infested field when a sudden voice calls out her name from the darkness, startling the daylights out of her.

“Holy Jesus,” Emily hisses, jerking to a stop with a hand over her racing heart. She squints into the night and struggles to make out the figure slumped against a tree. “ _Beca?_ ”

“‘Sup.” Beca throws up a peace sign. Her head is propped up against the tree and pillowed by her arm, the rest of her body prone on the grass like a corpse. After the awful night she just had, all Emily wants to do is rush back to her dorm and crawl into bed. But curiosity and concern roots her to the spot. 

“Uh. Hi. Why are you…?” She figures she doesn’t have to finish the question.

Beca shrugs. “Was at a party, it got boring. Came out here to get some air. Between you and me, this crowd’s a lot more chill.” She raises her arms, indicating vaguely to the chorus of crickets surrounding her. From somewhere in the shadows, she pulls out a bottle of cheap vodka. “Stole this on my way out, if you want any.”

It’s a casual invitation, easy to accept or decline. Emily hesitates, arms crossed to fight off the chilly breeze. “I also have this,” Beca offers, pulling out a large jacket from the same void she’d conjured the bottle. “This I stole accidentally. Forgot I didn’t bring a jacket there.”

That finally makes Emily smile, a feat she hadn’t thought possible for the rest of the night. Hesitantly making her way across the quad, Emily accepts the stranger’s jacket and slips it on. It’s thin but shields her from the cold. Settling down next to Beca, she also accepts the mostly-finished vodka bottle, and before she can think too much about how gross it’s going to be, she tips back the bottle and swallows a healthy gulp. 

It goes down way smoother than she’d expected, but the aftertaste makes her entire body cringe in on itself. “Blegh,” she says, wrinkling her nose. 

“Weak,” Beca mutters, chuckling. 

“You couldn’t steal something tastier?”

“It was a low-budget house party, my options were limited.”

Emily feels weird sitting beside Beca — whose body looks completely relaxed as she lounges against the tree — while her own body is rigid and tense, knees pulled in tight as if to protect herself from the cold breeze she no longer feels. Whatever it is that’s keeping her wound up, she figures alcohol would solve the problem.

She takes a second, more cautious gulp of the disgusting vodka. 

“How long have you been out here?” Emily asks.

“Eh. An hour, maybe two?”

“That’s a while.”

“It’s a nice place to think,” Beca says idly. 

Emily doesn’t press. Beca hasn’t asked her what _she_ was doing out so late, and Emily has a feeling she’s not going to. It seems only fair to respect this silent acknowledgement of each other’s privacies. 

Then again, maybe she wants Beca to ask. Maybe she wants to be prompted for a reiteration of tonight’s disastrous debacle. Maybe she wants to tell someone about the date she didn’t know was a date. About the boy she only ever saw as a friend. His confession. His request. His mouth against hers. 

She screws her eyes up tight and rubs fiercely at her temples as if that would make it go away.

Next to her, Beca sits up with concern, slow and wobbly. Her arm presses against Emily’s as she scoots up, and it’s almost shocking how cold she is. “Hey, you okay? You seem pretty down, which for you is saying a lot.” 

There’s the prompt. She can unload her worries now without feeling like she’s dumping them on Beca. But now that she’s reconsidered it all, she’s not so thrilled about reliving it so soon. Instead, Emily leans her head back against the tree and looks upwards, pretending she can see the sky and the stars through the thick canopy of branches. 

“Do you ever feel like…no one really gets you? Like _really_ gets you.”

Beca scoffs and takes contemptuous swig. “All the fucking time.” She passes the bottle to Emily again. “Why, do you?”

Emily mulls over her words for a while, trying to remember how she wanted to connect that question to what happened tonight. But the vodka’s tingling through her veins now and Beca’s arm against hers feels nice and she loses that thought completely.

“I was out with a friend. A guy friend,” she says, throwing all philosophical analogies out the window. “We were just hanging out, same as always. Except he was acting weird, like he was nervous about something. Long story short, he gave me this whole speech about being in love with me —”

“Ballsy.”

“— and asked if he could kiss me.”

“Wow. Real ballsy.”

“I know. I never saw him that way.”

“Oh? So you shot him down?”

“Yes.” She sighs. “No. Yes? I was…kind of caught off guard so I didn’t say anything, and he just, uh. Went for it. And it wasn’t bad. I didn’t hate it. But I didn’t really…want it.” 

Beca scoffs again, and somehow Emily can tell she’s pissed, and knowing Beca’s short temper, she expects a heated rant about how _men can’t keep their fucking hands to themsel_ —

“I bet I could do better.”

Emily blinks. “What?”

Beca’s looking straight ahead into the distance as she takes another sip and repeats, “I bet I could do better.”

“Do what better?”

“Kiss you.” 

The words hang so clearly in the air that Emily can practically see them. Not even the chirping racket of the crickets drown out the echo of those words. And she can’t help it; she laughs. “ _What?_ ”

“What?”

“You’re drunk, Beca.”

“Well, yeah. But I’m right.”

“Oh, my god.”

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re being ridiculous.”

“How is that ridiculous? Here, I’ll one-up this douche even more; I’ll let _you_ make the decision.”

“The decision to what?” Emily exclaims, still laughing. She glances at Beca and the laughter dies in her throat. There’s a certain clarity in Beca’s eyes as she continues to stare out at the empty field. She seems a lot more sober than she’s letting on. And suddenly Emily’s entire body is on fire because Beca’s _not_ just sloppily drunk-hitting on her, she’s as serious as she can be in her intoxicated state.

With her mind reeling, she barely processes Beca’s next words. 

“I just think you deserve to kiss someone who gets you.”

Even with the crushing blow to her self-esteem that she’d suffered through tonight, Emily thinks so, too. And she knows the answer to the question when she asks teasingly, “And, what, do _you_ ‘get me,’ Beca?”

She finally turns to face Emily, wearing a grin that’s probably meant to look cocky, but there’s a softness to her expression that negates the smugness. “I’d like to think that I do.”

The other shoe never drops. Beca’s not just pulling her leg, and by now they’ve been staring at each other for so long that it’d be weird _not_ to kiss at this point. Hesitantly, because exactly none of this feels like it’s actually happening, Emily leans in towards Beca, heart hammering painfully in her chest. 

She’s never been so close. They’ve hugged countless times, sure, but their faces have never been close enough for Emily to count every single eyelash above Beca’s piercing gaze. She knows she’s taking forever, that no one leans in _this_ slowly for a kiss, especially one that she wants so badly. And for Beca to wait there so patiently… 

Uncertainty has Emily pausing an inch away. “I-I don’t know if —”

“Just kiss me,” Beca whispers. 

It’s the way she says it, somewhere between an impatient demand and a desperate plea, that pushes Emily to close the gap to press their lips carefully together. She can smell the vodka on Beca, dizzying and sharp. Her lips are soft. So, so soft. And cold. It doesn’t seem possible that something so cold could be so soft, that something laced with so much alcohol could taste so heavenly. She could stay like this forever, unmoving, her lips pillowed by Beca’s. But it doesn’t feel right to push her luck tonight, not after having this exact act forced onto her earlier.

It’s Beca who keeps them from breaking apart. Not roughly, just a loose grip on Emily’s shoulder that can be shaken off at the slightest touch, but with unmistakable intention. With a slight shift to angle their faces better, she kisses Emily again with the same, perfect gentleness. 

And it’s the way Beca draws the line there — the way she doesn’t push for more or deepen the kiss or force her tongue through — that makes Emily’s heart melt. She kisses her again. And again. Slow, almost lazy kisses, like she’s savoring the feeling as much as Emily is. Like there’s no rush. Like they have all the time in the world.

There’s no telling how much of that time has passed when they finally pull away, their noses still brushing. Afraid that this is all a very high-definition dream, Emily doesn’t dare open her eyes until she feels Beca’s hand in hers. She finds Beca grinning with that same faux-cockiness. 

“So?” she asks. Even from that monosyllabic word, she sounds giddy and breathless. “What’s the verdict? Was I better?”

Emily smiles. She squeezes Beca’s warm hands. 

“Oh, no contest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title song: NFWMB - Hozier
> 
> going into this hozier compilation I'd assumed it'd be more Beca pov fics than Emily but it turns out I was wrong
> 
> feel free to throw ideas at me! https://becaeffingmitchell.tumblr.com/


	7. Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, starting this hozier series: there will be an overall post-apocalyptic vibe to these  
> me, writing this chapter: and here we have a JAM-PACKED bar!!!!
> 
> I really couldn't channel the sexiness of this song so I just resorted to my fave beca which is recklessly protective beca aka "I'm 5'2" and do not fear death so don't fuck with me right now" beca

There’s really no way around it, Beca thinks, watching him lean in close to be heard over the ruckus of the bar, a sleazy but valid excuse for the close proximity. The other option would be for the two of them to go somewhere quieter, which means less people, less security, less witnesses. 

Two awful choices to pick from.

It sucks, really, to be an unaccompanied woman at a bar.

It’s never been too much of a problem for Beca, whose posture, clothing, expression, and drink of choice practically screams, “I had a bad day and no one better fuck with me tonight,” regardless of whether or not she actually did. And any motherfucker who decides to ignore all of that to talk to her eventually ends up walking away, sulking, all attempts to flirt immediately shot down with harsh sarcasm and mocking smirks. 

But not everyone can channel that bitch energy. 

Beca finishes off her drink and gestures for another one before glancing down the length of the bar again, back to the pair she’d discreetly been observing. The guy is dressed nicely, his face all sharp angles and hard edges, his dark hair pushed back in a rumpled, casually messy way. He has a deceptively easygoing smile but his eyes are heavy-lidded and borderline predatory; Beca turns up her nose at how he looks at the girl he’s talking to like she’s something to be devoured. 

And the girl. Unlike the guy, she has a sweet face. Kind eyes. Beautiful long, brown hair. A smile that would complete the look if it weren’t so nervous. Her body language is familiar to Beca, who’s people-watched enough times at this bar to see countless women cornered this way. The body language of someone too polite or too scared to turn away a relentless man vying for their attention.

He leans in again, close to her ear, and Beca watches as her smile wavers and her eyes flit around the bar as if silently searching for a way out. Disgust rolls through Beca’s gut as his fingers graze the girl’s arm, the touch deliberate and implicit. 

The bartender returns with Beca’s drink and she closes out her tab before hopping out of her seat. 

Maybe it’s because she’s feeling tipsy. Maybe it’s because she  _ did _ have a bad day. Maybe it’s because she’s just sick of seeing dudes harass helpless women. 

Maybe she’s just itching for a fight.

Beca pushes herself through the crowd, careful not to spill her drink, and pops in right between the pair.

“Hey, there you are,” she says, sidling up to the girl. Jesus, she’s tall. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” They both regard Beca with two vastly different variations of confusion: him with annoyed puzzlement, her with complete bafflement. Beca presses on, addressing the girl. “Come on, we were supposed to get shots like, an hour ago.”

“Actually,” the guy cuts in. He puts a hand on the girl’s shoulder, a possessive gesture, and Beca holds herself back from smacking it away. “We were having a conversation here,” he says. His smile is still light and carefree. His eyes still tell a different story.

“Oh, were you?” Beca asks innocently, stepping further into their space. “About what?”

The guy blinks. Fueled by anger and alcohol, Beca returns his gaze steadily, smiling serenely. He rolls his eyes, then, probably recognizing this as a forceful intervention. “None of your business.”

“Actually,” Beca says, mocking his previous interruption and raising her voice. Several heads, including the bartender’s, turn their way. “It  _ is _ my business. She’s here with me, and I think she’d like to be left alone.”

His expression sours as Beca draws attention to their little circle. Visibly leaning away from the girl, who at this point is bright red and looking supremely uncomfortable, he smooths back his already-smoothed-back hair and straightens his collar. 

“Whatever,” he sniffs. He pushes past the girl towards the door, making sure to toss a classy, “Bitch,” at Beca before departing. 

Halfway to the door, he looks over his shoulder as if checking to see if Beca’s still there, to see if the girl chose to follow him. Self-centered jackass. Beca smiles and shoots him the finger. She can almost hear his scoff as he slinks out the door. 

The fight drains out of her, and Beca’s hands start to shake a little from the confrontation. She takes a healthy gulp of her drink and turns to the girl. Even though she knows it’s a stupid question, Beca still asks, “You okay?” 

“Um. Yeah. Thanks,” she says, a small, relieved smile pushing through the lingering fear. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Beca rolls her eyes. “Yes, I did.” She holds out a hand for a delayed introduction. “Beca.”

“Emily.”

No longer facing the intimidating attention and presence of an asshat, Emily seems to brighten a little, a sun regaining its strength. Her smile grows as she shakes Beca’s hand, a soft, upwards curve of her lips and a flash of perfect teeth. She’s holding herself differently now, not hunched and fearful like before but with a certain grace that makes her look confident. Inviting. Kind of…sexy. 

“Are you here alone?” Beca asks, clearing her throat.

“N-uh. Yeah. Well I wasn’t, but now…yeah.” Emily fidgets with her drink. “I was here with my roommates, but they…left. You know, with like. Men. And this thing was like, $13, so I wanted to finish it before leaving.”

Raising an eyebrow, Beca looks down at the half-finished cocktail in Emily’s hand. “Well. Was it worth it?”

“Um.” Emily pauses to take a sip, like she needs a reminder. “No. No, not at all.”

“Your roommates are shit, no offense. Leaving someone like you alone in a place like this.”

“They’re not the…they mean well. They just kind of forget details like that,” she shrugs, saying more by not defending them. She gives Beca a curious look. “‘Someone like me’?”

“You know, like. Uh.” Beca fumbles. She gestures down the length of Emily’s body and instantly regrets it. “Looking all innocent and friendly…and pretty and stuff,” she says, mumbling the last part in a rush and hoping Emily didn’t hear. “Guys take advantage of that.” 

Judging by the quirk of her eyebrows, Emily definitely caught Beca’s comment. Her smile grows. “Guess you don’t have that problem, huh?” She gestures at Beca’s body, mimicking her. “You’re all tough-looking and can speak your mind. And without crying! That’s amazing. Plus, you’ve got all those scary ear spikes so you probably don’t feel pain anymore.”

Beca snorts out a laugh. Though she hates to admit it, she can understand why that guy was so insistent. Emily’s beautiful and cute and sexy and kind of a huge dork. She’s the whole damn package. And she’s alone.

Was.  _ Was _ alone. 

And she knows it’s hypocritical of her to think this way, to develop a legitimate interest in this girl who just escaped unwanted attention that’d been forced onto her, but Beca wants to believe that she’s at least a little bit better than him, that she isn’t objectifying Emily for the hell of it. 

She doesn’t know how, but she can tell Emily’s much more than just a pretty smile. There’s a gentle warmth to her and Beca’s drawn to it, a gravitational pull that has her leaning in close like she can’t bear to miss a single word.

So she does something she usually never does. 

“Can I get you another drink?” she offers. “Maybe something you’ll actually enjoy.”

Emily looks as surprised as Beca feels, but there’s genuine intrigue behind her smile, neither forced nor glassily polite. That has to mean something. “Oh. Okay,” she says, shy and bashful. “Are you sure? Weren’t you busy like…brooding on your own?” 

Narrowing her eyes playfully, Beca waves down the bartender. 

Because yes, she may be a hypocrite for hitting on the girl she just saved from getting hit on, but at least she’s not a total creep and has enough self-awareness to back off if Emily looks uncomfortable.

And Emily looks anything but uncomfortable, clinking her fresh drink with Beca’s and laughing at some stupid remark she’d made, responding animatedly to Beca’s awkward small talk, pressing Beca for details about her job, about her friends, about her life, leaning in close so they can hear each other over the rancourous crowd.

It’s dumb, Beca thinks, to feel this much satisfaction from such an insignificant action, having Emily lean in towards Beca the same way that guy had leaned in towards Emily. It’s dumb because Emily isn’t some prize she’d won, she’s her own person and she can choose to do what she wants and talk to whoever she wants. But that’s what it is: Emily had chosen to stay with Beca. 

Halfway through a story about a hamster she’d honest-to-god named Tupac, Emily pauses and rubs at her throat. “Ugh. Sorry,” she says. “I don’t usually shout for so long. This probably isn’t the best place for a conversation, huh?”

She probably didn’t intend for it to mean anything, but Beca sees the opportunity. She sees it but still hesitates before seizing it. 

“Well, uh. If you want, my place is pretty quiet. Actually, I have a pretty annoying roommate who like, never stops singing, but. It’s quiet enough for a conversation. Like, an actual conversation, not like. You know.” Her neck feels hot and she hopes she’s not blushing like an idiot.

Emily pauses. She looks delighted but also unsure. 

“Totally cool if you don’t want to,” Beca races to add. “I’m. Yeah, it’s just an option. If you also, like. Want better drinks.” She lets out a breathy laugh. Jesus, she’s never been this nervous around anyone before. Why is she so nervous? 

“No, no! I mean, yes.” Emily winces, her nose scrunching adorably. “Yes. Sorry, I just…usually when I go home with someone, it’s for more than just a conversation.”

Beca blinks at the implication. “Oh,” is all she can say before Emily folds in on herself with embarrassment.

“God, that came out  _ so _ wrong,” she moans. “I’m sorry. I mean it’s correct, they  _ do _ expect more, and I  _ do _ go, but that was crass, wasn’t it? Ugh. You get what I’m saying, though.”

“Yeah,” Beca says, practically cringing at how enamored she sounds. “I get it. Totally no pressure, I guess my offer sounds lame in comparison.”

“No, I want to.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay.” Beca nods towards the door. “Then let’s blow this joint.”

If the noise level was any indication, the bar is still jam-packed with people even at this late hour. Beca forces her way through the crowd, shoving people aside and using elbows when necessary, squeezing herself through the tiniest of gaps.

Somewhere in the middle of the sea of bodies, Beca frowns to herself, suddenly unsure whether Emily’s still behind her. 

Not that she cares. Because she doesn’t. It wouldn’t bother her at all if Emily isn’t following her, if she’d decided to ditch at the last second and blend into the comfortable anonymity of the thick crowd. It wouldn’t bother her if they both go home alone tonight. 

Emily can do whatever the hell she wants. There’s no reason for her to accept Beca’s invite, to follow Beca out of the bar. And Beca doesn’t care, she doesn’t need to hound the poor girl and make sure she’s following behind her. She doesn’t care. 

She doesn’t care. She doesn’t. She  _ really _ doesn’t. 

She does.

Ten feet from the door, she grinds to a halt, feet practically skidding on the floor. She has to know. She has to know before she leaves. 

So Beca turns around.

Emily practically runs into her. “Whoa, what?” she asks, confused. “Did you forget something?”

“N-no,” Beca stutters. “I just. Uh, I wanted to make sure you were still behind me.”

“Oh.” Emily smiles down at her, soft and sweet, and Beca’s stomach does a triple backflip. “I’m here.”

“Right. Cool.”

Emily takes her hand. “Here. So we don’t get separated,” she says brightly. 

“Sure. Yup.”

Face and ears burning, Beca leads them forward through the crowd, continuing to shove people aside but now kind of struggling because she’s only using one arm. She doesn’t dare let go of Emily’s hand, though, not because it fits perfectly in hers and it makes her fingertips tingle, no  _ not _ because of that, but because she doesn’t want to lose her in the crowd. 

And, Beca thinks, finally making it outside into the night, if she has to fight the rest of the world with just one hand, so be it. As long as Emily’s holding the other one, she’ll definitely win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes I forced the myth in there too because these are purely self-indulgent
> 
> talk (haha) to me: http://becaeffingmitchell.tumblr.com/


	8. Someone New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continuation from Talk

When she wakes, blindly shielding her eyes against the cold light of morning drifting in through the gaps in the blinds, the first thing Emily feels is the soft weight of a blanket covering her body, fluffy and warm and smelling of flowery detergent. Next comes the quiet presence of someone sitting close by.

Beca looks up from her phone as Emily stirs awake. “Hey. Morning.”

“Mm. Hi,” Emily rasps. “What time is it?”

“Almost 9.” Beca’s hair is all wet like she’d just gotten out of the shower. Through the lingering haze of sleep, Emily realizes that Beca hadn’t been wearing that much makeup last night — her face virtually unchanged, skin naturally flawless, everything about her so casually and effortlessly pretty.

Despite the sleep deprivation weighing heavy in her bones, Emily’s heart thrums awake as she stares just a little too long at Beca. She’d been beautiful last night, under the harsh neon lighting of the bar, in the semi-darkness of the cab, her features growing softer as the night progressed as they talked and talked late into the night and into the early hours of morning.

And she’s beautiful now, a patch of sunlight resting comfortably on her shoulder like a reassuring hand, a soft smile pulling at her lips as she catches Emily staring. She averts her gaze quickly, embarrassed to be caught, but before Emily can offer any kind of excuse or deflection, her stomach intervenes with a loud, mortifying growl.

“Oh, jeez,” Emily mutters. “Sorry.”

Beca laughs. “Wanna grab breakfast? There’s a cafe down the street.” 

Happiness buzzes through Emily at the invite. It’s not that she’d expected Beca to kick her out as soon as she woke up; it’s the prospect for more, a mutual desire to prolong this — whatever _this_ is, she’s not too sure — for just another while longer. 

“Okay,” Emily agrees. “Breakfast sounds great.”

“Cool. Did you want to change? I can lend you some clothes.”

“Oh, uh.” She pauses at the offer. She does feel crusty and oily and gross, yesterday’s clothes all limp and musty from sweating in the bar. A change of clothes would be great…but would it be weird? Would it be overstepping? To borrow clothes from someone she barely —

Beca’s already retreating into her room, emerging shortly with a T-shirt and a zip-up hoodie. “Hope these fit. Pants…will be impossible. My roommate’s also short as hell.”

“This is perfect,” Emily says, shooting her a grateful smile. 

“Cool,” Beca says again, though this time she averts her gaze. Emily likes how Beca turns a little pink and looks away whenever she smiles at her a certain way. It makes her want to keep smiling at Beca, something she finds isn’t all that hard to do.

The bathroom is still warm and damp from Beca’s shower when Emily ducks in to change, remnants of fog lingering at the edges of the mirror and water droplets speckling the shower walls. 

She quickly washes her face and steals some mouthwash and generally tries not to look like she’d spent the night on a stranger’s couch before looking over her reflection in the mirror, satisfied with the damage control. It’s strange, now that she thinks about it, that she’s never done anything like this.

Not the _staying over_ part. That she does a lot. With sweet guys she meets at less raunchy bars. With blind dates set up by friends. With impressionable dating app matches. She’s a self-aware romantic, weak to charming smiles and friendly conversations, naively hoping for that magical connection. It’s not really about sleeping with them. Emily doesn’t mind it, really, but sex is just a prerequisite, something to get out of the way before they get to what she’s actually craving: the quiet comfort afterwards, the closeness she feels with someone, being wrapped in their arms as she drifts off to sleep. 

And maybe sometimes Emily jumps the gun a bit and finds out the hard way, through a day-after text or a lack of one, that they’re not as friendly during the day as they are at night. 

Then comes Beca. With her heroic entrance, her somewhat stilted follow-up, and her increasingly awkward invitation. True to her word, all the two of them did last night was talk. Talk, share drinks, laugh at childhood memories, ponder the meaning of the universe, stay up well past 4am. They’d only relented to sleep when exhaustion took over and neither of them could form a coherent thought. 

It’s different, this morning-after part. The borrowed clothes. The breakfast plans. _This_ she never does, especially not with someone that didn’t ask for anything more than an honest conversation the night before. And as she pulls on the fresh shirt, the collar a bit snug and the material way nicer than anything she would ever wear casually, Emily realizes what it means to borrow this shirt. She’ll have to wear it home after breakfast. Wash it. Return it. 

It means she has the perfect excuse to see Beca again.

But then she emerges from the bathroom and Beca’s gaze noticeably lingers on the shirt as she blushes and coughs out a “you ready?” with forced lightness and Emily doesn’t really think she needs an elaborate excuse. 

It’s _definitely_ different.

There’s a quiet ease that comes with Beca’s company, a familiarity that shouldn’t make sense considering they’d only met last night. She meets all of Emily’s rambling and stammering with bottomless patience. She engages in silly debates about cereal brands, about American Idol winners, about best candle smells. She even laughs along at the dumb stories from Emily’s college years without a hint of feigned interest.

And Emily’s not used to this, this give and take, this push and pull kind of dynamic. She’s used to pushing, just pushing, always pushing. She’s used to falling too fast, feeling too much, coming on too strong. 

But all of that dissipates with Beca. 

“That’s…no. You’re fucking with me.”

“I’m not!”

“Seriously?” Beca scoffs, leaning back in her chair before reaching for her coffee. “‘The _World_ Championships of A Cappella’? What the hell kind of made up shit is that?”

Emily throws down her bagel and furiously scrolls through her phone for photo evidence. “There!” she says proudly, showing Beca a group photo of her collegiate a cappella group. They’re huddled under a banner that clearly states that they’re at the World Championships of A Cappella. Beca squints at it before raising her eyebrows.

“Wow.” 

“Impressed?” Emily teases. 

Beca hides a smirk behind her mug. “Hm. You…are officially the lamest person I’ve ever met.”

“Hey! What d’you mean, this is _super_ cool.”

“The _World_ Cham-…god. Where do they come up with this stuff?”

“You’d know about it if you were cool,” she claims, “like me.”

“Okay, well the more you try to justify it, the less cool you are,” Beca laughs.

Emily pauses and narrows her eyes. Then she slouches down in her seat, throwing one arm casually over the back of her chair, and spreads her legs a little. A mirror image of Beca’s relaxed posture. “How ‘bout now? Cool enough for you?”

Blinking, Beca self-consciously straightens and shakes her head, wearing a rueful smile.

And Emily realizes what it is. Herself. She can be herself around Beca. With everyone else it'd always felt like an act, a performance she had to put on to be liked or even paid attention to. The end result was a watered-down version of Emily Junk, a bland and boring persona she had a difficult time maintaining. Now, free from the pressure of being ‘likeable,’ Emily ironically feels likeable just by being her weird, nerdy self. 

Something about Beca invites simplicity — the calmness in her eyes, the straightforwardness in her storytelling, the impeccable timing for comebacks. The way she emits a soft glow of kindness despite her prickly-looking exterior.

She’s different. And okay, maybe Emily’s thought that about too many others before, but this time, she _knows_ it to be true. Beca’s different.

Emily chews her bagel thoughtfully and stares at her, the embarrassment of getting caught earlier evidently having taught her nothing. Morning sunlight streams in from the cafe’s windows and gives Beca’s still-damp hair the softest golden highlights, illuminating half of her face in a breathtaking light. 

The contrast is startling. This Beca, all fresh and warm and kind. And the Beca from last night, a cold glare and savage grin chasing away the pushy guy at the bar, her presence somehow imposing and threatening despite being a full foot shorter than him. The way she’d tried to hide her shaking hands around a glass of some intimidating-looking brown liquor. The way she’d offered that shaking hand to Emily as a delayed greeting. 

The way she’d let Emily hold that hand as they left that bar, the thick crowd serving as a convenient excuse to hang on like her life depended on it.

Her eyes drift down to Beca’s hand on the tabletop, her fingers unconsciously tapping out a beat. There’s no excuse here — sitting in this cafe, having dumb discussions about collegiate a cappella and bagel toppings — to hold her hand even though she _really_ wants to. Emily fights every urge not to grab for it.

As she stares, their waitress swings by and puts the check down on the table. 

Both of them immediately slap a hand down on the thin holder. “I got it,” they say at the same time; Beca’s mouth ticks up at one corner. “Jinx,” Emily adds quickly. “Ha! You owe me a beer.”

Beca rolls her eyes. “Okay, dork. You don’t even like beer.” And it’s an insignificant thing, a small fact that she tells anyone who buys her a drink, but it makes Emily feel all fuzzy inside, the fact that Beca remembered. “Come on, dude. You got an untoasted bagel like a psychopath and I got this whole-ass meal. Let me get it this time.”

Emily raises an eyebrow and releases the check, surprised. “‘This time’?” she repeats. 

Beca also raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? What, you thought I’d let you keep that shirt? And my favorite hoodie? No, I want them back and you’ll treat me the next time we meet up.”

“An elaborate plan,” Emily muses, somehow managing to sound casually teasing even though her heart is going a mile a minute with excitement. “Sneaking in a second date before the first one’s even over?”

“What can I say? I’m a forward-thinking kind of gal,” Beca shrugs offhandedly. But she’s doing that thing again, blushing and avoiding eye contact, and Emily’s stomach flutters with butterflies. “Figured I should like, I dunno, get myself in there before someone else comes along. Someone better.”

“Oh, please.” Emily crosses her arms. “That’s impossible.”

Halfway through slipping several bills into the check holder, Beca pauses. She opens her mouth. Then closes it. A slow smile spreads across her face, softening her eyes. “Yeah?” she finally asks, not quite managing to sound as nonchalant as she probably wants to. “Good to know.”

And as they leave the cafe, Beca leading the way to the closest bus stop, Emily feels that her bold claim is completely justified. Because as often as she thinks the people she meets and sleeps with can eventually become The One if she molds herself to their liking, she’s pretty sure _this_ is how love is supposed to start. A simple connection between like-minded people.

Emboldened by the prospect of another date in the near future, she reaches for Beca’s hand and smiles to herself as Beca intertwines their fingers without question. And as she swings their linked hands with enthusiasm that predictably makes Beca roll her eyes, Emily realizes she never needed an excuse to hold her hand. 

With Beca, she’d never really need an excuse to show her love ever again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspective fics like this is so hard to write......legitimately struggled sO hard to finish this lmao
> 
> message/inbox me if u have any bemily thoughts! https://becaeffingmitchell.tumblr.com


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